Hush, Says the Scone
by RosalieOfGallifrey
Summary: Martha Jones remembers when the skies were made of diamonds. Tom Milligan doesn't understand. ONESHOT


Disclaimer: I am not the BBC, and therefore I do not own Doctor Who.

* * *

Martha Jones had a mug of tea cupped in her hands when Tom Milligan walked by. Martha Jones didn't drink tea. Tea was weakness—_tea was for the weak_—and Martha Jones was anything but. Tea was for the sad, and Martha Jones was happy.

It never happened, you see, it never ever happened, isn't that fantastic? It wasn't real, _nothing happened_, the memories—what memories? Martha Jones couldn't possibly remember a year that never existed.

Martha Jones couldn't possibly remember a year of friends' bodies and Master's broadcasts and haunted old eyes with a face that fit their age, for once. A year of survivor's guilt and rockets and spheres and little happy children slicing—_oh God,_ _Sarah Jane_—slicing and never stopping. A year when the sky was made of diamonds.

* * *

"Tea, Martha?" says Tom.

"I don't drink tea," she says.

"You're drinking it now."

"I can't drink tea."

"Is everything alright?"

"No, Tom," replies Martha. "Everything's not alright. This life is wrong. You and me, we're wrong."

"Er—Martha, what on Earth are you talking about?"

"Not on Earth. It was, before, and then—"

Martha twirls the silver and the diamond-_the diamond_-on her finger. Slow tears begin to roll down her cheeks. She doesn't acknowledge them.

"You're not making sense," says Tom, and his voice begins to rise. "What do you mean, we're not alright? Is this some sort of pre-wedding nerves? Is this—"

"Did you know," interjects Martha, her voice shaking, "did you know that you're the only person who can make me cry now?"

"Where is this coming from?" yells Tom, exasperated. "You and me, we're _wonderful_. I am so grateful, _you should be grateful_ that we have the life that we do. You know, when I travel, I see people with horrific lives, and I always know how blessed I am. You should be grateful, Martha, grateful."

* * *

Tom's voice is a blur, rolling on and on, same letters, same words, over and over.

BE GRATEFUL, Martha, GIVE THANKS.

(Martha Jones remembers a time that never existed.)

GIVE THANKS TO THE MASTER, Martha.

(Martha Jones wants to run away.)

GIVE THANKS TO _YOUR _MASTER, Martha.

(Martha Jones wants to hide.)

I AM YOUR MASTER AND YOU WILL OBEY ME, Martha Jones.

(And Martha Jones learned to be very, very good at hiding.)

* * *

Martha is rocking back and forth when Tom finally leaves. He calls goodbye to her, and she doesn't respond.

Martha's feet carry her to the kitchen. Her eyes scan lightning across a page and her hands move without prompting and they mix and they mix and they mix and...

Martha breathes deeply, and in front of her is a plate of scones.

But the kitchen is dirty, the kitchen must be clean, and Martha's arms strain with the scrubbing, her legs run 'round and 'round, her eyes are dull, blank, and the water and the water and the sponge or the rag, and which one goes first?

The plate of scones sits calmly on the counter.

But Martha is angry, _oh_ _Martha is angry_, Martha is angry at the scones. Body loose and graceful, she tosses the scones one by one into the bin.

A child's smile graces Martha's lips as the _thump-thump_ of the scones becomes rhythmic and they

beat

beat

beat

in order until all the scones are gone.

(Martha Jones would have screamed at that, because

order

order

order

sounds a bit too much like _exterminate_.)

There is order to be had in the bedroom, in Martha's and Tom's bedroom, because the clothes strewn in passion and left in laziness are piles of DISORDER, and don't worry, Martha can fix that. Martha is very good at fixing messes.

(Martha Jones was a servant in 1913.)

Her hands choose and shake and fold and fold and smooth and pile and surely time can't be a ball because time is gone and gone and the piles tower and scream at Martha, the princess, the princess and the pea, she feels every wrinkle and the PILES ARE NOT STRAIGHT and Martha has failed, failed, failed-until suddenly, she hasn't. Everything is stacked neatly, neatly in order, and Martha looks upon her work and calls it good.

* * *

It is at this moment that Tom finds her, standing above beautifully folded piles of clothing with no spark in her eyes.

"Martha? Martha, love, I'm home."

Martha doesn't respond.

(Martha Jones is locked inside a tiny little box marked M-A-S-T-E-R.)

"Martha, I know you were upset earlier, but this really isn't mature. Can we please just talk?"

(And Martha Jones doesn't _ever_ want to come out.)

* * *

"Martha?"

"Yes?"

Martha's voice is high-pitched and soft, and holds none of her usual conviction.

"Martha, I'm worried about you. You haven't moved since I've been home..."

"Why would you think I'm upset with you?"

"Sorry?"

"Earlier, you said earlier that I was upset with you. Why would you think that?"

"Well," says Tom, confusion evident on his face, "you were crying."

"I was crying?" asks Martha.

"Yes," says Tom, and he is really very worried now, "Yes, you were crying. And you said that I was the only one who could ever make you cry now. What-what did you mean?"

"You are."

Silence falls.

* * *

"It's getting late, Martha, and I don't want to go to sleep concerned about you. Is there anything else I should know? Is there anything the matter with your health? Are you-"

"You need to stop trying to diagnose me."

"We're doctors. That's what we do. We diagnose people and then we help them."

"You need to stop trying to diagnose me."

"Martha, you're scaring me. If this is still about the conversation we had earlier..."

"What conversation?"

Tom is frightened, now, because Martha's voice is a monotone.

"Call it what you like," he says, false bravado colouring his speech, "but we were talking before I left to run to the shop. And I had some important things to say—maybe you were right, Martha, maybe there is something wrong here. I didn't notice, or I was ignoring it, but you can't just go through life expecting people to be kind to you if you're not going to give them any gratitude.

Martha?

Martha, please talk to me.

Martha!"

"Gratitude," she whispers.

A single tear slips down Martha's cheek, and Martha Jones blinks up at Tom.

(Because Tom Milligan is the only person in the universe who can make Martha Jones cry now.)

* * *

A quarter hour later and Martha Jones and Tom Milligan are sitting across from each other in their small, spotless kitchen.

"Sometimes," says Martha, "the memories hurt too much. And then I have to go away for a little while. God, did I really do all that? All that…cleaning?"

"Yes. But Martha, this isn't healthy. Look, I don't know what happened when you went traveling with that Doctor, but it was obviously—I don't know. There's the rub—I _don't_ know, because you won't talk to me. I think some of it was good, and some of it… there are people who can help with that sort of thing. I'm worried about you."

"What are you suggesting, Tom? I'd really like you to be frank with me-I'm not a child and I'm not a patient."

"Fine," he says. "I think you need to talk to someone. It could be to me, or a friend, or a professional, but you need help."

"I don't need help, Tom."

"You don't need help? Martha, you-well, to be honest, you went _insane_ today, and you say you don't need help?

"I have it sorted, Tom," says Martha. "I've found a way to deal."

"Do you call this dealing?" asks Tom. "This compulsive neatening? You were barely responding when I walked in today, but the house is spotless and you don't even seem to remember cleaning it! Martha, please-listen to me! You. Need-"

"No," she replies, "no, I don't. I've already helped myself. I've blocked it off. It's not healthy to go around living in the past. I know that, Tom. I know that because it works."

"It didn't work today."

"No," she says, "it didn't work today. But that wasn't because of me."

"What?" asks Tom. "Are you saying that _I_ had something to do with this? Martha-"

She cuts him off.

"It's not your fault."

"Martha-"

"It's nothing you've done. But Tom, you don't _know_. You can't know. No one can."

"Know what? Martha, you need to tell me. _Please_." His voice breaks.

"I can't, Tom. Because even if I told you, you wouldn't _understand_. And I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. But you can't compete with a dead man."

"Martha..."

"I love you, Tom Milligan. But you're dead."

"I'm what?"

"You're dead. And the man you were-will be-he's never coming back. And every day you remind me of him. I thought you might remember. I thought...I'm not sure what I thought. But I can't do this, Tom. Not anymore."

"What are you saying?"

Martha sighs.

"I'm saying that this-you and me-we're never going to work. You deserve someone better, Tom. Someone who can look at you and love you for who you are, not the man you never got to be. And that someone's never going to be me."

"Martha, what are you _talking_ about? I'm dead? A man who never was? I don't-"

"I'm sorry, Tom. I hope-I never wanted to cause you any pain. But I _can't_ do this. It hurts too much."

She slips her silver and diamond ring off of her finger and places it carefully on the table.

"So," says Tom. "that's it?"

"Yes," says Martha. "I'm sorry. I love you."

"Martha..."

"Goodbye."

"Martha!"

Martha walks away from the house and the man she's called home. A gust of wind stifles her first sob.

* * *

One hour later, Martha Jones stands in a park, rain replacing the tears rolling down her cheeks.

Tom Milligan really is the only one who can make her cry now.

* * *

Two hours later, the night is still, silent but for the soft patter of raindrops and the occasional car rolling by.

Martha Jones is sure she should be crying, but all she feels is an overwhelming sense of relief.

Because, truly, Martha let go of Tom long, long ago.

* * *

Three hours later, the rain slows and the night is crisp.

Martha Jones pulls out her mobile and dials a long since memorised number.

_Because maybe, just maybe,_ Martha thinks, _learning to cry again might not be so bad._

* * *

"He pushed us away, you know. He forced us through horrors and he ignored us. And in the end, we both walked away. Tom didn't understand."

"Come over to my place," says Mickey. "Let's talk over tea."

(Do you want to know a secret? _Martha Jones and Mickey Smith did a lot more than just talk.)_

* * *

_A/N: Thank you very much for reading! Any reviews would be greatly appreciated. (edited)  
_


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